


Time Lapse

by thirty2flavors



Series: Anachronism [2]
Category: Borderlands (Video Games)
Genre: 5 Times, Angst, Character Study, Multi, fic tie-in, includes sasha/august and sasha/female OC, mentions of fiona and vaughn and others, no on-screen sex but a lot of post-coital
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-12
Updated: 2020-01-12
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:47:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22218808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thirty2flavors/pseuds/thirty2flavors
Summary: Four nights Sasha spent alone, and one she didn't.A prequel of sorts to Anachronism.
Relationships: Rhys/Sasha (Borderlands)
Series: Anachronism [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1599349
Comments: 10
Kudos: 42





	Time Lapse

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hyperionstooge](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hyperionstooge/gifts).



> This is both a gift fic and a sort of prequel tie-in to my longer WIP, [Anachronism](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17424527/chapters/41020928). Although most of this fic takes place before Anachronism starts, it assumes knowledge of chapters 1-10, so if you happen to read it and are like, "hey, what the hell is this about?", that would be why. 
> 
> Happiest of birthdays to @hyperionstooge, sad older Sasha's godparent and without whom I would probably have never written Anachronism in the first place. In honour of you I have written a lot of words of Sasha being sad. You're welcome.

**twenty-six**

Once she’s sure Vaughn is asleep, Sasha tells the bots she’s going for a walk and creeps away from the campfire. Even Gortys’ curiosity is sated by the need for privacy; they’ve been on the road for months now. Small mercies.

Elpis lighting the way, she walks until she finds shelter beneath a small cliff, out of sight and out of earshot. It’s a little past midnight now, the arbitrary starting line for a brand new day, and that makes it official: Sasha is twenty-six. 

Celebrating has never been further from Sasha’s mind. 

She decides she won’t tell the others. They’d want to do something—or at least they’d feel obligated to try. Gortys might sing. Vaughn might scrape together a nicer meal than they’ve eaten in ages. Collectively, she knows, they’d force some smiles and cheer and pretend as if they have anything to be happy about. As if they’ve got anything to show for the months they’ve spent searching. As if Fiona and Rhys aren’t still completely out of reach.

She sinks onto a boulder, hugging her arms against the desert night chill. Her heart feels like it’s being juiced and a dozen what-ifs swarm like rakks in her mind. It’s too soon, she tells herself. She can’t give up yet, she won’t, but—

She’s never had a birthday without Fiona before.

“Where the hell did you go?” she whispers, staring at the stars like they might have answers. "Why didn't you wait for me?"

There’s nothing.

The pressure in her chest builds, pushing its way up into her throat, turning her breath to gasps. Alone with the Pandoran desert, under a vast night sky, twenty-six year old Sasha screams until she starts to sob.

* * *

**thirty**

“We’ve been over this.”

Propped up against the headboard, August rolls his eyes. “I’m just saying—”

“I know what you’re saying, and the answer is no.” His bare chest is still pink and flushed, and Sasha looks away as she cleans herself up and reaches for her clothes. “I told you I wasn’t looking for…” She fumbles for a second, waving her hand in search of the word. “Domestics.” 

“Jesus, Sasha, it’s a bed, not a marriage proposal.” He gestures towards the empty space beside him. “Come on, you gotta be tired.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” she mutters. Louder, she says, “Besides, you’re a furnace when you sleep.”

“Since when does that bother you?”

Sasha ignores that. She pulls her shirt on with her back to him. “I have to meet Vaughn in Frostburn tomorrow anyway. He thinks he’s found a lead on Felix.” 

August’s incredulous silence swallows the room. “The hell would you wanna see him for?”

She fixes her hair into a ponytail. “He might be able to help.” 

“How?!”

“Felix always had more connections than he ever let on.” She keeps her voice calm, matter-of-fact. “Maybe one of them can dig something up.”

“He’s a lying jackass,” August counters. “You know that.”

She does. She also knows that if Felix ever cared about anything while he was in their lives, he cared about Fiona.

“You’re gonna get hurt,” August continues. 

“I can handle him.” There’s a scar on her stomach where a stopwatch once saved her life, and her arm aches whenever a storm rolls in. Her bangles clink together as she slides them back onto her wrist. “If he can help Fiona, I have to try.”

For a blissful second, August is silent, and she thinks that might be the end of it. Then he says, “You can’t do this forever, Sash.”

On the contrary, Sasha can’t imagine stopping. Searching for Fiona and Rhys has been the non-negotiable constant of Sasha’s life for the better part of five years, the only forward momentum she’s been able to maintain.

She glares over her shoulder. “Don’t.”

“You really wanna waste your whole life on a wild goose chase? They’re gone.”

“Shut up.” She wheels around to face him fully, propelled by a fury that clenches her fists at her sides. “Just—shut up.”

But as it often does, August’s stubbornness butts heads with hers. “Seriously. You gotta move on sometime.”

“Move on to what, exactly?” The sneer bares her teeth. “Being your little barmaid?” Watching August’s face contort in outrage gives her a rush. “That’s what you want, isn’t it? You just can’t wait for me to—to give up and—and settle—”

“You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me. I’m trying to help you here—”

“You are not! You haven’t done a damn thing to help thing to help the whole time they’ve been missing!” 

“They’re not missing, Sasha, they’re dead!” August’s temper flares like he’s slammed the accelerator. “The vault killed ‘em, or evaporated ‘em, or stuck ‘em in some weird alien dimension, and they’re not coming back. I’m not gonna follow you and Vaughn around enabling this delusion you’ve got.”

Living as a con artist, silence had been a death sentence. Quick thinking and a quicker tongue are tools of the trade, the best defenses a grifter can have against the ever-present threat of marks-turned-enemies.

For the first time in a long time, Sasha can’t put any of the words in her head to good use. Heart running rampant, she gapes at August and says nothing.

“Look.” August takes advantage of the quiet, calmer but no more compromising. “Either you can face reality, and start figuring out what comes next—or you can keep going the way you are, and chase after some asshole who abandoned you ‘cause you’re so damn desperate for family.”

The ringing in her ears clears long enough for her to take a parting shot. 

“What the hell would you know about family?” she asks, and she slams the door behind her.

* * *

**thirty-two**

“I’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours.”

Not quite tipsy and certainly not sober, Sasha’s brain fumbles to parse the sentence. She locates the speaker: a woman at the corner of the bar, swirling a bottle of Maliwan Black Label between cybernetic fingers. 

Sasha raises one eyebrow. The woman nods at Sasha’s neck, then casts a meaningful look towards her own prosthetic.

Twisting on her barstool to face the woman, Sasha shrugs as she sips her drink. “You go first.”

The woman takes it as an invite, vacating her own seat to occupy the one next to Sasha. She sets her beer on the counter and holds out her prosthetic arm.

“Lost it years ago, taking down one of those old Hyperion loaders.” She flexes her fingers to show off the mechanical joints. “My corrosive gun sprung a leak. Skin started melting off. Saw my own bone. But hey: at least I fucked up that hunk of junk while I was at it. Ran my radius through its eye socket.” 

She looks at Sasha expectantly, proud of her own heroics. 

“Bullshit,” says Sasha.

The woman’s cool facade breaks, replaced by a cheeky smile that shows off her tongue ring. “Yeah. Skag ripped it off when I was four. But wasn’t the other story more fun?” 

Sasha concedes the point, tipping her glass in a toast before she drinks. 

The woman raises an eyebrow. That’s pierced, too. “Your turn.”

“Stalker attack.”

“That’s it?”

More or less. “Sorry to disappoint.” Sasha’s thumb rubs along her scar twice before she catches herself. A newly formed nervous tic. “Should I have lied?”

“Yeah, maybe. Jazz it up a little, jeeze.” But the woman’s grin is teasing, and Sasha finds herself smiling a little, too. “Stalker, huh? The human kind or the invisible kind?”

“Invisible.”

“That’s the better option,” the woman says. She brushes her hair behind her ear, and Sasha shifts closer on the edge of her seat. “Trust me.”

Sasha’s not looking for someone to trust. She allows for two seconds of silent contemplation, then she tosses back what remains of her drink and sets down the empty with a clink. “So, you live near here?”

* * *

Things move quickly, the only pace Sasha keeps anymore. 

The woman doesn’t live far from where the caravan is parked. She doesn’t ask for Sasha’s name or volunteer her own. She’s as good with her tongue as Sasha hoped. 

For tonight, she’s perfect. 

Afterwards, they split a beer and the woman lights herself a cigarette. She catches Sasha eyeing the beaten-up guitar in the corner of the room and asks, “You know how to play?”

“No.” Sasha shakes her head. It’d been on the list, once. Earmarked by a younger Sasha for later, a someday that an older Sasha knows will never come. “Never learned.” 

“Too bad.” The woman winks. “You’re good with your fingers.”

She puts out her cigarette in the empty beer bottle, then rolls onto her side, facing away. Sasha slings her legs over the side of the bed.

“Y’know you can stay if you want,” the woman says.

It’s a little tempting. It’s been a good night. The woman’s not bad company.

All the more reason to run far and fast.

“Can’t,” Sasha says shortly, already dressing herself. “Sorry.”

“Suit yourself.” There’s no sign of disappointment in her voice, which is for the best, even if it stings just a little. “See you around?”

“I don’t think so,” Sasha says honestly.

“All right.” The woman seems unperturbed by that answer, too. Her metal hand appears from under the sheets to give a short, casual wave. “Bye then.” 

Before she leaves, Sasha takes the handkerchief out of her hair and ties it around her neck instead.

* * *

**thirty-five**

Between jobs and weather and the cycle of Pandora’s sun, it’s been a while since she’s been able to sleep on the roof of the caravan. She’s missed it, and that the opportunity should arise today, of all days, isn’t going to put her off. Once the pillows and blankets are properly arranged, Sasha burrows into them. The air is chilly, but the sky is magnificent, deep and dark and speckled with more stars than she could ever count.

Then she remembers trying once, as a kid with Fiona, and her mood sours.

Ten years to the day. No doubt Vaughn has left some unanswered messages, a thought that nags ineffectually at her conscience. The problem is that Vaughn wants different things… well, always, but particularly at this time of year. Wants to reminisce and commiserate. She’d rather burst her own ear drums than hear Vaughn wax poetic about Rhys one more time. 

Grief or anger, she could handle; it’s the denial that rankles her. Rhys is no better than Fiona. He’s gone, too. Ten years ago as Sasha lay dying, Rhys cried crocodile tears, Fiona said heartfelt things she didn’t mean, and then the two of them turned around and took nine million dollars and the Vault for themselves. 

Only when her hand starts to hurt does Sasha realize how tightly she’s gripping her blanket. Usually a comfort, tonight the stars mock her. She wonders which one they went to. She wonders if they’ve ever regretted it.

She doubts it. She curls onto her side and pulls the blanket over her head.

* * *

**thirty-seven**

Rhys’ face lights up when she walks back in. She’s barely been gone two minutes to clean herself up, and yet the hazy smile is mixed with relief, like he’s been worried he dreamt her up.

Or like he thought she might disappear. Run away somehow through the tiny windowless bathroom. 

Guilt wedges its way into her happiness. She wishes she could say it’s an unfounded fear, but this runs contrary to everything she’s spent years teaching herself. Part of her, small but potent, wants to bolt. The bed, with Rhys in it, is a live grenade, and she’ll have to move fast to escape the blast.

She won’t, though. She’s staying. She promised, she reminds herself, firm. 

Besides… she _wants_ to.

Rhys isn’t shy about staring as she walks back, which might make her self-conscious if he weren’t so slack-jawed. She moves deliberately, a sway in her hips, and enjoys the way his eyes follow.

“You taking a picture with that eye?” she teases.

Rhys turns scarlet. “Uh…”

“Gearing up for the next round, maybe?”

“Oh, god, no.” His eyes widen as he catches himself. “Not that I—I mean—I _would_ , but I am… _so_ tired. You’re just, like, super hot.” He thinks better of that, too, and his blush spreads all the way down his neck. It’s very satisfying. “Uh—beautiful. Stunning. Elegant.” 

Sasha laughs as she flips the light off and climbs under the covers next to him. “Please, I’m Pandoran; I’ve never been elegant a day in my life.” She places a hand on his chest, right over the big blue tattoo. “Thanks though. You’re very _elegant_ too.” 

“Well, yeah. Obviously.” 

“Goodnight, Rhys.” 

She gives him a sloppy kiss, and then she rolls over, nestling into the pillow. Rhys settles down next to her, but there’s a distance. He must be lying on his back. 

It’s a bit strange. She’d be lying if she said it wasn’t awkward. She can’t recall the last time she spent the whole night beside someone, let alone someone who makes her feel any of the things that Rhys does. It’s more overwhelming than she anticipated. She knows what she’d like to happen, but… 

The quiet of the room starts to feel heavy, and the space between them is enormous. She waits a little while, but Rhys doesn’t move, even though judging from his breathing he hasn’t fallen asleep. She worries the inside of her lip, gathering the courage for something she’s never done before.

She reaches back, finds Rhys’ metal wrist, and pulls his arm around her. 

“Oh.” Rhys sounds surprised but pleased by this turn of events. “Okay.” He’s nice and warm against her, like a bath. “Actually, just—hang on—”

He fumbles around for a minute, and it’s not until he’s finished that she figures out what he’s done: wrapped the sheets around his prosthetic so that it’s soft against her skin when he pulls her close.

For some stupid reason it makes her want to cry. She squeezes her eyes shut instead. 

“Sorry,” he explains, blasé and unaware. “It can pinch if I’m not careful.” 

He nuzzles the back of her neck before getting comfortable behind her. She feels at once safer and more exhilarated than she has in a long, long time. 

“Y’know, s’funny,” he says, drowsiness beginning to creep into his voice and string his words together. “Always kinda pictured you as a big spoon sort of person.”

She wants to quip back— _pictured spooning me, have you?_ —but her throat feels tight. She fights to keep her breathing steady. 

“Not tonight,” she whispers.

Rhys falls asleep shortly after that, but Sasha stays awake a while longer, soaking in the feeling of being held by someone she trusts. Eventually she drifts off, clutching Rhys’ arm like a teddy bear.

**Author's Note:**

> You're always welcome to come say hi on Tumblr: [@oodlyenough](https://oodlyenough.tumblr.com/)
> 
> If you're reading this and you're like "what the hell man it's been two months where's a real update", uh, I'm working on it. Chapter 11's hard man.


End file.
